Stands to Lovers
by TraditionalGaily
Summary: In which Moody Blues and Sticky Fingers show their affection publicly, which is a hell lot easier for them than their Users since they can't be seen by normal people.


_Summary:_  
_Buccellati has a way of spicing up boring, unofficial meetings with officials._  
_The entertainment value is a bit one-sided, though._  
_Abbacchio suffers._  
_Stands need to recline too and a private function sans enemy Stand Users should be safe._  
_If only they knew how to behave._  
_Again Abbacchio suffers._

_In which Moody Blues and Sticky Fingers show their affection publicly, which is a hell lot easier for them than their Users since they can't be seen by normal people._

* * *

"...and some Bruschetta...For the main course...mhm..."

_Monster_, Abbacchio thought watching Buccellati flip hypocritically through the menu.  
_Sadistic, immature monster..._

Beads of sweat forming on his forehead, Abbacchio coughed ominously to distract from his wrecked breathing.  
More or less successfully.  
God, he could feel the glimpses aimed at his neck.  
He let his face disappear further between the opened menu.  
They were regulars at Libeccio, so he really needn't check it.  
And neither did Buccellati...

"Hnghmmm..." it escaped his throat and Abbacchio broke out into a coughing fit to cover for the weird noise.

"You need some water?" Buccellati purred adding insult to injury.

_Monster._  
_With unexpectedly soft feet..._

"No, I'm fine, really...hm" he harrumphed; his lips contorting into a forced smile as the waiter tended to him.

After finishing his order (what was it he had ordered? He hadn't listened to his own babble...) Abbacchio continued being miserable and hopefully hiding it from the rest of the world.

And Buccellati thought this was no fun.

"Hnnm..."

_Why?_

His eyes spoke for him as Abbacchio searched Buccellati's gaze.

_Why are you doing this to me?_

Buccellati didn't answer the question written all over Abbacchio's embarrassed face.  
And had the gall to strike up a conversation with some self-declared building tycoon sitting on his left while his left foot rubbed tantalisingly slow over the base of Abbacchio's cock.

An informal meeting Buccellati had needed Abbacchio to accompany him to.  
Something about construction and land-use planning, but it wasn't for the brains but the connections to attend. Which equalled alcohol and that's why he had been dragged into this rather than Fugo.

Abbacchio wondered why there even were official meetings held if all the important stuff got agreed on and toasted to in mafia affiliated terrain.  
Like Libeccio.

Something about goodwill to keep the happily churning misshapen of Naples going.  
So mostly business talk and boring stuff.  
And apparently Buccellati had thought so too.

The knee softly wedged between his legs, Abbacchio had ignored.  
But then Buccellati had started rubbing his calves and shins against more delicate parts and eventually, after slipping out of his shoes, he'd continued pleasing him with his feet.

The long tablecloth wouldn't give him away.  
Neither would the austere and carefree mask he wore.

But within those gorgeous blue eyes now resting upon some political bigwig Abbacchio could see the glint of sadism.  
Buccellati really was enjoying himself.  
And he was a master at hiding it.  
Unlike Abbacchio who was only a few more nudges against his balls away from moaning like an animal.

Fuck, Buccellati had many talents.  
And he'd have preferred to not find out about them first hand. Or foot, in that case.  
Oh God...

If he was lucky he wouldn't blow his load until the main course where the party would be in high spirits, five to six bottles of cheap champagne emptied as some spiritual overture and no one would take any notice of his suppressed coughs and muffled moans.  
No, if he was lucky he would blow his load right here, right now in silence and get ratted after that until he no longer felt, or cared for his jizzed on pants.  
Abbacchio feared he'd lack enough self control to keep quiet, though.  
And leaving the table for a quick jerk off in the rest room without anyone noticing his bulging pants was highly unlikely.

So he sat there and suffered, giving Buccellati all sorts of looks, not sure which one would make him stop.

Bruschetta gone (Buccellati's that was, Abbacchio wasn't even half way through his; who would have thought eating and not coming was so hard to coordinate) Buccellati had finally come to his senses.  
Or simply slipped.  
Anyway his foot was no longer torturing Abbacchio's twitching genitals and he closed his legs in case the intermission had been unintentional.

"What was that for?"

The rest of the party now in elated self-indulgence took no notice of the whispered conversation.

"Punishment," Buccellati smiled and swirled his glass.

Like an idiot, Abbacchio sneered.  
He'd had one too many and unlike the top brass surrounding them joined in inebriate laughter Buccellati was not a hard drinker.  
He'd usually live on the 'unofficial dinners' substituting Polpo once or twice a week and all the espresso he could drink in between. And of course the cookies handed with the espresso. He'd pocket them.  
Abbacchio had found his stash.

"What for?"

And because Buccellati was already his relaxed fucked-up self he mouthed: "Friday night."

It hit Abbacchio like a 16t weight.

Buccellati had worked past midnight and it had almost become traditional for Abbacchio to assist, be it by making coffee or running a few errands. (By now Abbacchio was questioning what it was Buccellati actually was in charge of. Or what he wasn't since it promised to be the shorter list.)  
Anyway papers signed and phones turned off, Buccellati had hinted how a glass wouldn't hurt and upon further inquiry specified that the 'of what' was second-tier considered it was hard liquor. The second glass didn't hurt either, neither did the following.  
At one point the long story is usually cut short.  
That is because the quintessence very seldom follows as natural consequence to previous actions.  
This drunk story is no exception.

In a nutshell intoxicated Abbacchio had found it hilarious to hot brand intoxicated Buccellati with his trademark 'A' belt buckle.  
Don't ask why, it just happened.  
How he'd heated up the damn thing neither of them could remember in the morning.  
What remained was Abbacchio's physical attempt on calling dips on Buccellati, though secretive for now as the latter bore the mark now on his left ass cheek.  
Thankfully.

"I'm so sorry," Abbacchio mouthed across the table; like the hundred times he had done so the morning after.  
But Buccellati dismissed this by waving his hand.  
He was drunk, this was his night off and he had already made Abbacchio's life a living hell twice this evening.  
From this point on the rest would be bonus.

_If Stands were dependant on their Users mental state, would a drunk User be able to call his out?  
And would said lured out specimen be intoxicated as well or just harder to control?_  
Abbacchio kept pondering over similar theses while glancing over at Sticky Fingers standing forlorn behind his well-oiled User.  
For a second there Abbacchio had panicked, but quickly remembered that they weren't among Passione members but common people, so the rest of the party was oblivious to the blue and white fighter looming over Buccellati.  
Perhaps he'd detached himself to help out Buccellati and given the latter's drunk-giggly state, no wonder his Stand thought he needed protection.  
Only he didn't do so much as just Stand, pardon, stand there while Buccellati helped himself to more wine.

Yeah, great help.  
Was this their namesake, Abbacchio chuckled at his own dim-wittedness, because they just kept standing around...

Or he simply enjoyed the night off, stretching his legs, out to pasture or however Buccellati referred to it.  
And it was slightly unsettling that he kept staring in his direction, though...

Abbacchio paused, glass raised to his lips as Sticky Fingers moved over to his side of the table, sheepish 'can-he-come-out-to-play-too?' look (he didn't have eyes Goddamnit!) radiating from behind his visor.

No.  
Not now.  
Not tonight.

But then Abbacchio looked over to Buccellati who gave a tired shrug in return and thought _fuck it _calling out Moody Blues to show good sportsmanship.

Pets.  
Why couldn't they have traded their Standian halves for pets.  
Something that would obey, like really obey their commands.  
Not just if they felt like it and/or to impress some fellow Stand.  
Something that could be locked up in a kennel...

Abbacchio watched Moody Blues joining Sticky Fingers side after a confirming nod in the former's direction (What did Moody Blues expect? That he would tell him to be home before midnight?).

He hadn't gotten much sleep lately.  
And was wasted.  
So he was hallucinating.  
Because he had to be imagining the two of them standing side by side now, in front of the large window gazing at the moon holding hands.  
But he filled his glass to the brim in case this was real so he would stop caring sooner.  
Ah, sweet alcohol poisoning.

On the pro-side: unlike pets Stands had no reproductive cycle, no mating rituals (it was only Buccellati's dirty fantasy that they were courting), no territorial fights.  
Well, not in the traditional sense.  
There was this alpha-male thing going on between Moody Blues and Purple Haze, but he liked to think about his Stand being pretty competitive.  
Rather than him fighting over Sticky Fingers with a challenging Stand.  
God, he could be so embarrassing some times...

Glass half down Abbacchio almost choked as for the second time this evening something got hold of his balls.  
And cock.  
And was tantalisingly slow rubbing against his shaft until reaching the base.  
Despite his insobriety calm and collected Abbacchio set down his glass, closed his eyes and took a deep breath to fully regain his composure.

Right, hilarious Buccellati.  
Pulling the same trick on him twice.

Only when he shot the latter a reprobative glance did he notice how much paler Buccellati had gotten.  
And how tried acting naturally, swirling his wine glass and smiling when he looked strained.  
Strained, like his breathing.  
Staccato gulps for air as if choking on something...

Cold realisation dawning on him Abbacchio looked over to their Stands' tryst, or better yet, the amorous tête-à-tête it had turned into...  
Tête-à...  
Gallantly put, they were no longer at similar height head wise.

Moody Blues' had stayed roughly at the same height, but he had stopped admiring the moon, but was facing downwards to where his lover had gotten down on his knees for that special kind of lip service.

In the middle of the fucking room full of people, who, admittedly, couldn't see them.  
But Abbacchio felt that this was a matter of principle.

Crossing his legs and bumping his knee in the process, Abbacchio looked over at Buccellati who was worse off.  
Eyes now closed Buccellati was sitting immobile and calm pretending that there wasn't an invisible cock shoved down his throat.  
And Abbacchio envied him for his self-control.  
He would have outright panicked and gasped for air or fainted.  
And probably all at once.

But Buccellati was handling this like a professional which stirred a few immodest fantasies within Abbacchio's dirty mind.  
And he asked himself whether Buccellati possessed a gag reflex considering how deep he could feel his own cock down his throat.  
Probably didn't.  
No, definitely didn't.

Abbacchio forced himself into a steady breathing rhythm.  
Convival evening or not, bellowing like a stag wouldn't go unnoticed.  
Just the thought about getting caught was making Abbacchio blush.  
That and the thing Sticky Fingers did with his tongue.  
Which made it quite obvious why Buccellati deleted his search history.

Fuck, it was simply divine.  
The teasing licks, the steady pressure while sucking enhanced by manually pumping or playfully squeezes of his balls if he took it in all the way; the expertise...

And when he looked over to Buccellati, eyes half-lidded, bangs framing his face pushed back behind his ears (so they wouldn't get in the way or what? He was giving a blowjob only second hand...), mouth covered by his hand though, he could just about imagine that he was going down on him.  
Screw the last thought, he loved imagining that and he kept doing so until, eventually (still reluctantly) he blew his load.  
Creaming his pants in the process but what choice did he have.

Abbacchio refilled his and Buccellati's glass, the latter now breathing heavily cheeks still flushed (it made Abbacchio smile) and then toasted to them.  
For covering the traces of their sex-crazed Stands.  
And to newly discovered oral services their capo had until now kept from him.

Buccellati was eager to wet his throat and downed his glass in one go.

_At least he wouldn't have to worry about the after-taste.  
_Abbacchio slapped himself mentally for his tactlessness.

With some of tonight's guests leaving the restaurant for a quick smoke (and to continue a conversation more privately; it was not like Libeccio was smoke-free anyway...) the vacant seat next to Buccellati was soon occupied by Abbacchio.

In horror both watched and felt Sticky Fingers and Moody Blues lock in a final embrace before they did the Standian equivalent of saying good night. Sloppy interminable kiss included.

Abbacchio finished his glass and then Buccellati's because he had ran out of wine.  
Screw that there wasn't enough wine in Libeccio to make him forget that.

Buccellati sighed heart-felt as they parted and Abbacchio whacked him over the head.

"God what a night," Abbacchio mumbled as the pair returned to their respective Users.

And then he added at the metallic glint, the light caught oddly around the hand region: "Strange, I don't remember Sticky Fingers having brass knuckles..."

The penny dropped and so did Abbacchio's glass, shattering on the floor.

"This is..."

"This is unacceptable," he continued a trifle quieter as the conversations around them continued.

"I saw it, no use hiding it behind your back now, I saw it..."

Sticky Fingers looked uncommonly sheepish as he kept his hands defensively from Abbacchio's field of view.

"Please tell me you don't..."

But it was no use.  
Moody Blues was sporting the golden thing around his finger too.  
Only _he_ did so more openly.

Abbacchio looked from his Stand, to the embarrassed looking other Stand, to Buccellati (who shrugged; _just great_) back to his own Stand.

Then he deflated.

"Where did they get them?"

Stands merged again with their Users Abbacchio wouldn't just drop the topic.

"I don't know," Buccellati stated truthfully.  
And then smiled the idiotic smile of the soon to be bride's father hearing distant bells ringing.

"But wedding rings..."

"Engagement rings," Buccellati corrected him but added under Abbacchio's shocked stare, "as far as I can tell..."

"This is just ridiculous..." Abbacchio began but followed Buccellati's gaze resting on the man three chairs away.

Who kept staring back at them.

Come to think of it he'd done so for the better part of the evening.  
Only Abbacchio really didn't care so much about being stared at, but...

"Shit!" he cursed under his breath at the flickering lights now surrounding the stranger.  
And the grotesque, fairly humanoid shape appearing behind him.

Normal people my ass, he was a Stand User.  
And had probably witnessed everything.

Shit.

But Buccellati had produced a bottle of real champagne out of thin air (did he really have one zipped away for special occasions?) and refilled their glasses including the somewhat hesitant stranger they were now flanking.

"You don't mind joining us on that one, do you?"

He didn't have a choice, really.  
And so he forcibly raised his glass with Abbacchio and Buccellati.

"To the newly engage," Buccellati toasted boastful.

"If you ask his Stand to be best man I'm leaving..."

But Buccellati continued unperturbed: "From Stands to Lovers."


End file.
